Not Easy Tonight
by Erin Giles
Summary: There is a fine line between love and hate that Wesley has been forced to walk.


TITLE: Not Easy Tonight  
  
AUTHOR: Erin Giles  
  
RATING: PG–13 for language and violence.  
  
CHALLENGE: From 50thousandtearz (aka Miss Morgan-Pryce)  
2-3 REQUESTS: something about love/hate relationships and  
something REALLY bad has to happen to Fred (but can't be  
permanent I guess cuz this is canon.)  
  
2-3 RESTRICTIONS: this can't be a happy/sappy fic (i.e.  
fluff/comedy) and no song fic (I can't think of that much I  
don't want to see.)  
  
DISCLAIMER: None of the characters belong to me. I'm not that rich so don't sue.  
  
PAIRING: Fred/Gunn, Wes/Lilah  
  
A/N: Thanks have to go to Roon for the (un)inspiring naughty limericks she wrote about a certain Englishman in an attempt to get me my muse back although it was eventually Staind who did the trick.  
  
The neon sign flickered a couple of times before extinguishing itself in the early hours of another day in the City of Angels. Wesley pulled his jacket on over his shoulders, hunched with a sense of weariness and defeat, not because he was cold but because of a lack of anything else to do but wear it.  
  
He was drunk. Again. As far as he was concerned there were only ever two choices anymore – go out and get drunk or stay home and get drunk. Of course, the second option allowed for another path to be followed, which almost certainly involved Wolfram and Hart's favourite attorney, Lilah Morgan.  
  
His "relationship" with her was, at the least, complicated and almost certainly outrageously wrong. She was the embodiment of everything he hated about the world and, in a way, himself. Yet, he couldn't help but fall in love with her, though he would never admit it to anyone, least of all himself. She was always there when he needed her, there to comfort him, because, in a twisted sort of way, she was all he had left. His friends had abandoned him along with his former self, making him feel as if he no longer belonged here. Sometimes he wasn't sure why he clung to this city, yet other times he knew exactly why.  
  
In Los Angeles no one belonged, not really. And if he was entirely honest with himself he still believed that some day his friends would forgive him, Angel would forgive him, and he would rather wait for that day than return "home". He felt like a ghost in the city, lost in the crowd now, when he used to feel as if he stood out, stood up for something, something he believed in, believed it so blindly that he had walked right into another skin, another life, another stupid mess...  
  
He rounded another corner, his hands buried deep inside his coat pocket now, fists balled, ready to lash out at anything that came his way because he was so furious with himself, and so exasperated with the world around him. A part of him desperately wanted to disappear without a trace, fed up of losing people he cared about, fed up of losing family and friends, watching from afar as others got on with their lives, watching the world pass him by as he was held back by himself and by his own morals, few of which he had left anymore.  
  
That day Justine had slit his throat it was like he had unzipped his skin and left his old self behind, like he had stepped into another persons shoes, someone he needed to be, rather than wanted to be, because that was the only way he would, only way he could, survive. Yet survival wasn't compulsory, and apparently neither was learning from your mistakes. He always thought he could do everything by himself, HAD to do everything by himself, without any help, because that was the way he had been taught, and yet after all his years at Angel Investigations he had still failed to learn that there was no I in Team.  
  
But his team was nothing but I now. There was no Angel Investigations involving him anymore, he wasn't part of any team, and as everyday played out he found himself forgetting what it was like to be part of a team, part of a family, part of anything akin to reality. He could be on a team though; Lilah had dropped hints on many occasions about joining Wolfram and Hart, but he would have none of it, even after her inspiring "You-can-never- get-that-white-colour-back" speech. Truth was he didn't want to be on a team anymore, now he only had himself to care about, there was no "we" no "us" only "I".  
  
Lilah and him were just wild meaningless sex and would never be anything else, but it meant something to him that she was there, he could pretend she was Fred, pretend he was back at Angel Investigations, pretend everything was right with the world, but in the morning the pretence faded and he was left staring back in the mirror at an unkempt man he hardly knew, the road showing now on his weary face, memories of dreams contradicting himself in everything he did.  
  
Every night it would be just one last time and every morning one more time was not enough to sustain him, and he wondered just how long he would live like this. Would he resign himself to playing her games forever, everything he had given up to make it to this point in his life, mocking him at every twist and turn; or was there an alternative?  
  
Wesley turned into an alley, staring blindly past his feet at the littered alley floor, the sounds of footsteps not reaching his ears, only noticing the two figures when he bumped into the taller of the two.  
  
"Hey bro, watch where you're-"Charles Gunn paused mid-sentence as his gaze drew level with the Englishman, fire blazing in his dark brown eyes as he pulled himself up to his full height, looking down at Wesley as if he was nothing more than a cockroach he was about to exterminate.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Gunn snapped, his fists balled at his sides, as Wesley made no move to draw himself up to his own full height. His weary eyes continued to meet Gunn's gaze for a long moment before he glanced at Fred wistfully whilst he started to sidestep Gunn without a word. Gunn's hand snaked out from his side, and like lightening grabbed at Wesley's arm, holding him tightly.  
  
"Don't you dare look at my girl like that, English." Gunn hissed through clenched teeth.  
  
"Kindly remove your hand from my arm." Wesley replied calmly, still looking at Fred. He wasn't in the mood for this. He was drunk, which meant he was very easily aggravated and at the moment he just wanted to get home so he could drown himself in the contents of his liquor cabinet.  
  
"Did you hear me, don't you dare look at my girl like that." Gunn persisted. Fred shifted nervously under Wesley's gaze before she put a hand on Gunn's arm.  
  
"Charles, leave it. It's not worth it." Wesley's heart convulsed at her words, did that mean that he wasn't worth it? Wasn't worth anything to her anymore? He remembered painfully when Fred had come to visit him in the hospital, telling him not to come back to the office, telling him how he had been wrong. He glanced away from her for a moment, wondering if things could have turned out differently. He remembered the night of the ballet, how wonderful she had looked in her dress, her eyes as bright as the jewels that sparkled on her dress. She had been wrapped up in layers of red satin, flowing over her petite figure in waves – and he actually thought he had been in with a chance. But she had made her choice – he was the big brother, nothing more then, and now nothing more than another face in the crowd whom she had learned to hate. He turned away from Fred, disgusted with himself, and irate with Fred for choosing Gunn over him, yet how could he hate her, her brown locks falling over her delicate shoulders, afraid that she might break would he dare to touch her, and he couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't stand the memories.  
  
"What do you tell a woman that's got two black eyes? Nothing you haven't told her twice already."  
  
He tried to pry his arm from Gunn's grip, the hurt and anger continuing to rise up within, but the street fighter persisted in holding on, without any sign of releasing his vise grip.  
  
"Did you hear me?" Gunn barked, his voice increasing in ferocity as Wesley turned cold eyes on him.  
  
"While I walk on American turf, Charles, I abide by their laws, and therefore am free to do as I will, and if you have a problem with that then I suggest you take it up with Benjamin Franklin, otherwise would you kindly let go of my arm." Gunn seethed at that, letting go of Wesley's arm just long enough to swing a punch at him, sending him toppling backwards into one of the dumpsters.  
  
"You bastard!" Gunn screamed, pulling Wesley to his feet only to hit him again.  
  
"Charles!" Fred screamed from the other side of the alley, a cry for help, rather than a cry to stop, as Gunn swung another punch at Wesley, flooring him for the second time. Wesley struggled to stand again, his vision swimming as some unseen force pulled him roughly to his feet, but it wasn't Gunn this time. The grotesque face of a vampire stared back at him with livid yellow eyes.  
  
"Hello," It hissed through it's deformed features, licking its lips hungrily, "English Breakfast." It observed gleefully, cocking its head to one side before looking down at its chest. "No fai-"  
  
Wesley pulled his stake back as the vampire disappeared in front of him in a flurry of dust before Wesley hit the alley floor for a third time that evening.  
  
Wesley glanced up as he heard a cry from across the other side of the alley. He watched as a vampire held Fred close, tasting her.  
  
"Fred." He whispered through clenched teeth as he brought himself to a standing position, charging across the alley towards the deadly duo that were now closing in on the young Texan woman. Wesley never made it to the other side of the alley though as he was knocked off of his feet by an airborne vampire, courtesy of Gunn. They both slammed into the alley floor, and Wesley heard his stake roll away from him. He reached out blindly for it as he tried to pull himself from underneath the overweight vamp, that he was sure would have died of heart failure within a week had he not been turned. Something had his stake before him though, and as he groped for a third time, found his own hand staked by one pissed off looking vampire.  
  
Wesley rolled to his feet, hand clutched to his chest as he pulled the stake from it with hast, not even bothering to trade blows with the offending vampire before the same stake was stuck firmly between its ribs.  
  
Wesley turned towards where he had last seen Fred, watching in horror as a vampire drank from her hungrily. The overweight vampire had already set its sites on Gunn, no longer interested in Wesley or the overpowering smell of blood that was coming from him.  
  
In two strides Wesley was behind the vampire that held Fred, makeshift stake in hand from a crate lying in the alley, not even bothering with a quip before dust partially obscured his vision of Fred, causing him to reach out blindly for her falling form. He caught her and lowered her towards the ground, desperately searching for a pulse with his uninjured hand.  
  
"Fred." He whispered as the last sounds of a dusting reached his ears and he heard footsteps behind him before Gunn appeared, shoving Wesley to one side, his arm slamming into the wall, causing him to hiss in pain, yet by the time he turned back to Gunn he had Fred in his arms, standing over Wesley, looking down on him with something more than the bitter hate that seemed to be ever present in Gunn's eyes now when he looked on Wesley. They had been such good friends at one point in time, yet how drastically things had changed. He remembered the last time he had been in an alley with Gunn, remembered how cold, how alone he felt, but Gunn had told him he would be alright, and some part of Wesley had believed him. Some part still did.  
  
Wesley remembered the concerned look his friend had given him as he lay dying on an alley floor, remembered how gratefully he was afterwards, as something close to that look sparkled in the depths of the young street fighter's eyes now.  
  
Wesley pulled himself to his feet slowly, arm clutched to his side painfully as he watched Gunn turn away from him in the alley, Fred in his arms. His sunken blue eyes followed them out of the alley, watching them disappear into the night, wanting desperately to follow, to see if Fred was all right, but he couldn't, because he wasn't family, wasn't anything more than a face in the crowd now. Instead he turned in the opposite direction, his shoulders still hunched with a sense of weariness and defeat as he exited the alley, wishing desperately he could leave all the pain and the memories and the anger there.  
  
Wesley pushed open the door of his apartment, walking inside stiffly before letting the door close gently behind him. He listened to it click into place before he made any further attempt to move into the apartment, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it lie where it fell, bloody hand cradled against his chest as he flung his keys onto the coffee table.  
  
"Hello Lover." The familiar bittersweet voice sang as it drifted across the expanse of his apartment, echoing off his cold blue walls as he reached out for the light beside the couch. The light illuminated him, the blood glistening in the dimness, making the bruises on his face that much more vivid, and there it was - a flicker of something other than the usual Lilah Morgan mask of uncaring, unfeeling, wild, passionate bitch. There was something other than that as she took in his dishevelled and beaten appearance. Something Lilah would never admit to, because for once it wasn't hate or even lust, it was love. 


End file.
